THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


/ 


POEMS 


BY 


HENRY    C.    HAYDEN 


SECOND  EDITION. 


BOSTON 

RAND    AVERY     COMPANY 
Cfje  JFranftltn 
1888 


COPYRIGHT,  1887, 
BY   HENRY   C.  HAYDEN. 


Co  B    TOfe. 


3tton0  tfce  patfctoag  of  a  buty  life, 

3'be  0atbere&  fare  an&  tfcere  a  mobe?t  ftotoer, 

<£oget&er  tied  tftem  in  a  leisure 

Jf  bloom  or  beaut?  in  tfre 

guffereb  from  mp  toucft,  perdbance  gou'fl 
?{joulb  ftabe  feft  ttem  blooming  bp  tfte  toap 


CONTENTS. 


PACK 

FUNERAL  oif  THE  LEAVES 9 

THE  BABY  FOUND       .  '  ' 10 

CHRISTMAS  Now  AND  THEN 12 

FOUR  SONGS  TO  THE  SEA 14 

ONLY  A  SPRIG  OF  HOLLY 18 

GENERAL  GRANT 20 

LOVE  THE  KEY 22 

EASTER-TIME 23 

WHEREFORE 24 

THE  BABY 25 

BIRTHDAYS .       .  26 

NEGLECTED  DUTY 28 

UNFORGIVEN 30 

MORNING  AND  EVENING 32 

CHRISTMAS 34 

SPRING 35 

GONE , 37 

WANDERING 39 

THE  RED  EAR  OF  CORN 41 

QUESTIONS  AND  ANSWERS 43 

7 


8  Contents. 

PAGE 

AUTUMN  MEMORIES 45 

JANUARY  i 47 

LIFE'S  JOURNEY 48 

LABORERS  WANTED 50 

MOLLIE  AND  GRANDFATHER 51 

THREE  INSTEAD  OF  FOUR 54 

THE  OTHER  LIFE 56 

G.  S.  T 57 

DELAYED   . 58 

DEDICATION  LINES 60 

WAITING 63 

DISAPPOINTMENT 65 

FAITH 67 

EXTRACTS  FROM  AN  ESSAY  ON  DOUGLAS  JERROLD  .        .  68 
EXTRACTS    FROM   AN    ESSAY    ON    THE    CHARACTER    OF 

RICHARD  THIRD 75 


POEMS. 


FUNERAL    OF    THE    LEAVES. 

UPON  their  wings  the  pitying  winds  are  bearing 
A  legion  of  dead  leaves  so  lately  slain : 
They  fell  before  the  frost-king  like  the  rain, 

And  on  they  go  to  burial.     Who  is  caring? 

One  drooping  bud,  one  faded,  withered  flower, 
Cannot  be  found  as  mourners  in  their  train; 
So  to  their  graves,  like  paupers  in  a  wain, 

The  friends  are  few  to  mourn  their  burial-hour. 

Yet  as  they  lie  uncoffined,  in  death  sleeping, 
The  silent  dew  in  grief  will  shed  a  tear, 
The  winds  will  sob  and  cry  above  their  bier ; 

It  matters  not  if  only  two  are  weeping : 
Even  dead  leaves,  wherever  they  may  blow, 
Mourners  will  have,  and  a  white  tomb  of  snow. 

9 


ro  The  Baby  Found. 


THE    BABY    FOUND. 

A  DEAR  little  baby  had  strayed  away 

From  the  wonderful  realm  of  Love  one  day. 

The  sorrowful  king  at  once  declared 
The  beautiful  baby  could  not  be  spared. 

He  gave  a  command  that  the  child  be  found, 
And  they  searched  the  kingdom  of  Love  around. 

But  they  searched  in  vain,  and  were  filled  with  dread : 
"The  child  must  have  wandered  to  earth,"  they  said. 

Then  the  king  commanded  to  search  again 
In  every  corner  of  his  domain; 

To  proclaim  the  loss,  and  to  bring  him  word 
If  any  had  seen  or  any  had  heard 


The  Baby  Found.  n 

Of  the  darling  baby  that  strayed  away 
From  the  wonderful  realm  of  Love  that  day. 

But  they  found  it  not,  and  again  returned. 
Then  the  heart  of  the  king  with  sorrow  burned ; 

For  his  hope  of  finding  the  child  had  fled. 
"It  must  have  wandered  to  earth,"  he  said. 

O  king  of  the  wonderful  realm  of  Love  ! 
The  baby  is  here;   and  the  angels  above 

Are  watching  with  us  on  the  earth  to-day 
O'er  the  darling  baby  that  strayed  away. 


12  Christmas  Now  and  Then. 


CHRISTMAS    NOW    AND    THEN. 

A  LITTLE  scarlet  stocking 
Hanging  from  a  chair; 

A  little  cradle  rocking, 
Baby  sleeping  there. 

A  mother  kneeling,  praying 
For  a  Saviour's  care, 

Sees  not  the  silver  lining, 
Only  golden  hair. 


A  stocking  in  the  drawer, 
Cradle  down  below; 

A  little  marble  tablet 
Hidden  by  the  snow. 


Christmas  Now  and  Then.  13 

A  mother  looking  inward, 

On  this  Christmas  morn, 
Can  see  the  silver  lining, — 

Feels  that  Christ  was  born. 


14  Four  Songs  to  the  Sea. 


FOUR    SONGS    TO    THE    SEA. 

I  SANG  a  song  in  my  childish  glee, 
To  the  shining  sea,  the  beautiful  sea; 
Running  barefoot  in  the  sand, 
Tossing  pebbles  on  the  strand, 
This  is  the  song  I  sang  to  the  sea, 
And  this  is  the  answer  that  came  to  me :  - 

"Send  rippling  waves  to  kiss  my  feet, 
And  I  will  give  a  kiss  to  thee; 

I  know  that  you  will  gladly  greet 
A  happy  little  child  like  me." 

"I'll  send  the  softest  waves  with  joy, 
And  music  sweet  by  breezes  fanned; 

For  the  rough  sea  of  life,  my  boy, 
Hath  depths  you  cannot  understand." 


Four  Songs  to  the  Sea.  15 

In  youth  I  sang  a  song  to  the  sea, — 
To  the  restless  sea,  the  changing  sea; 

Listening  to  the  dashing  waves 

Echoing  from  ocean  caves, 
This  is  the  reckless  song  that  I  sang, 
This  is  the  answer  that  ever  rang :  — 

"Thy  angry  waves  bare  rocks  may  beat, 
The  cold  shore  lash  till  time  shall  end : 

Wreck  on  the  reefs  an  hundred  fleet, 
If  fortune's  ship  to  me  you'll  send." 

"  I'll  send  the  ship  you  ask  of  me 
With  treasures  from  an  unseen  land : 

The  sea  of  life  disturbeth  thee ; 

Its  depths  youth  cannot  understand." 

Again  I  sang  a  song  to  the  sea, — 

The  raging  sea,  the  terrible  sea; 

Listening  to  the  thundering  tide, 
Wrecks  and  death  on  every  side, 

I  madly  sang  a  song  to  the  sea : 

This  quieting  answer  came  to  me :  — 


1 6  Four  Songs  to  fbe  Sea. 

"Where  is  my  ship,  O  treacherous  main? 

My  brain  is  wild  in  life's  mad  race : 
I  call  to  thee,  false  sea,  again; 

I  turn  in  anger  from  thy  face." 


"Thy  ship  will  come,  as  I  have  told; 

Impatience  only  sorrow  brings; 
Pray  listen  to  the  story  old; 

Celestial  treasures  have  not  wings." 


An  aged  man,  I  sang  to  the  sea, — 

The  peaceful  sea,  the  wonderful  sea; 
Standing  on  the  shore  alone, 
Listening  to  the  undertone, 

My  farewell  song  I  sang  to  the  sea; 

This  comforting  answer  came  to  me :  — 


"The  ship  you  promised  long  ago 
I  dimly  see  now  coming  in : 

Fair  winds  at  length  propitious  blow; 
I  wonder  where  my  ship  has  been." 


Four  Songs  to  the  Sea.  17 

"The  pearls  of  wisdom,  virtues  rare, 
Love  and  trust,  that  God  has  given, 

Your  worn,  long-coming  life-ship  bear, — 
These  are  your  passport  into  heaven." 


1 8  Only  a  Sprig  of  Holly. 


ONLY    A    SPRIG    OF    HOLLY. 

ONLY  a  sprig  of  holly 
That  he  had  sent  to  me, 

With  two  red  shining  berries : 
Could  gift  more  simple  be? 

And  yet  my  cheeks  were  blushing 
That  happy  Christmas  morn  : 

My  heart  revealed  the  secret,  — 
My  love  for  him  was  born. 

I  wore  it  at  my  bridal; 

And,  when  he  kissed  me  there, 
I  found  that  one  red  berry 

Had  fallen  from  my  hair. 

My  heart  said,  "  'Tis  an  omen ;  " 
And  thus  it  proved  to  be : 

He  lies  in  yonder  churchyard 
Beneath  a  linden-tree,  — 


Only  a  Sprig  of  Holly.  19 

And  I  the  gift  of  holly 

Am  wearing  on  my  breast, 
With  only  one  red  berry  — 

I  need  not  tell  the  rest. 


2O  General  Grant. 


GENERAL    GRANT. 
[Read  at  the  Commemoratiue  Services.] 

WE  come  not  to  the  funeral  of  a  king, 

Whose  weak,  reluctant  subjects  tribute  pay; 

Who  with  unwilling  voices  praises  sing: 
'Tis  not  for  kings  we  celebrate  to-day. 

No  jewelled  crown  bespeaks  a  regal  birth ; 

No  emblems  of  a  kingly  court  are  here, 
Announcing  that  a  potentate  of  earth 

Awaits  a  nation's  homage  at  his  bier. 

The  drooping  flags  at  half-mast  on  the  sea, 
On  shaft  and  tower,  on  hill-top  and  on  plain, 

Tell  of  a  soldier  who  to-day  is  free, — 
Tell  of  a  nation's  loss,  a  nation's  pain. 


General  Grant.  21 

Emblems  of  mourning  hang  from  roof  and  hall ; 

The  noise  of  trade  is  hushed,  and  brave  men  weep : 
For  a  dead  hero  lies  beneath  his  pall, 

Who  nevermore  will  waken  from  his  sleep. 

Here  to  commemorate  the  valiant  deeds 
Of  him  who  now  to  sepulchre  is  borne, 

We  come  with  a  great  nation,  whom  God  leads, 
In  his  mysterious  providence,  to  mourn. 

No  battle-cry  will  e'er  disturb  his  sleep; 

A  nation's  danger  will  not  call  him  forth 
To  lead  her  armies  and  her  honor  keep. 

Mourn  the  brave  soldier  dead,  O  South !  O  North ! 

For  noble  deeds,  ye  brothers,  give  him  praise :  — 
For  sacrifice  he  made  to  conquer  wrong, 

For  Freedom's  altar  that  he  helped  to  raise, 
Praise  him  to-day  with  eloquence  and  song. 


22  Love  the  Key. 


LOVE    THE    KEY. 

WE  spend  our  lives  in  searching  for  a  key 
To  unlock  the  mystic  door  to  happiness; 
Weary  at  length,  unsatisfied,  confess 

That  we  are  blind,  but  hoping  yet  to  see. 

Amid  the  rubbish  and  the  wealth  of  life, 
Persistently  we  seek;  and  toil  in  vain 
For  that  we  could  so  easily  obtain 

With  less  of  weariness  and  anxious  strife. 

Forgetting  self,  if  we  would  turn  aside, 
Extend  to  those  who  need  a  kindly  hand, 
Obeying  cheerfully  the  Lord's  command, 

The  door  to  happiness  would  open  wide. 

Search  as  we  will,  love  is  the  only  key 
That  will  unlock  that  door  for  you  and  me. 


Easter  Time.  23 


EASTER-TIME. 

THIS  Easter  brings  release  to  me, 
Through  Christ  the  open  door. 

My  heart,  long  bound,  henceforth  is  free ; 
I  wonder  and  adore. 

Life's  music  now  inspires  my  soul 
With  sounds  supremely  sweet; 

For  I  have  found  the  royal  goal 
Is  at  my  Saviour's  feet. 

I  have  been  pardoned,  and  to-day 

My  soul  is  out  of  prison ; 
Nor  needs  an  angel's  voice  to  say 

That  Christ  the  Lord  has  risen. 


24  Wherefore. 


"WHEREFORE. 

IF  man  is  but  a  thought  of  God,  then  born 
Into  the  shadows  of  this  fleeting  life, 
With  an  imperfect  armor  for  the  strife, 

To  fight  like  misty  clouds  the  sun  at  morn, 
To  be  subdued  and  ever  held  at  bay, 
Helpless  as  night  before  the  god  of  day; 

If  the  Creator  gave  us  fleeting  breath 
To  run  deluded  for  an  earthly  prize, 
To  find  at  length  we  ran  with  blinded  eyes, 

Only  to  live  and  then  shake  hands  with  death, 
Without  a  vision  of  the  royal  goal 
Within  the  sacred  temple  of  the  soul, — 

We  are  but  creatures  of  the  senseless  clod, 

And  not  the  children  of  a  loving  God. 


The  Baby.  25 


THE    BABY. 

"  Do  you  think  that  the  baby  looks  like  me  ? 

Just  hold  up  the  darling,  and  let  me  see. 

Ah  !  his  father's  mouth,  and  his  mother's  nose, 

And  such  tiny  fingers,  and  rosy  toes ! 

Never  a  baby  more  welcome  than  he 

Ever  came  over  love's  wonderful  sea. 

Now  lay  him  down  gently,  just  by  my  face, 

In  the  softest,  warmest,  cosiest  place, 

That  near  to  my  heart  his  slumbers  shall  be,  — 

This  bright  living  jewel  now  given  to  me." 

O  precious  soul  on  the  billows  of  life, 
Amid  the  rough  waves  of  sorrow  and  strife, 
We  pray  that  thy  voyage  propitious  may  be, 
Dear  little  traveller,  out  on  life's  sea ! 


26  Birthdays. 


BIRTHDAYS. 

OUR  birthdays  are  the  milestones  on  life's  way, 
Marking  the  years  of  pleasure  and  of  pain ; 

And  many  a  weary  traveller  will  say, 

There  is  much  more  of  loss  hi  life  than  gain. 

Although  the  journey  may  be  sometimes  drear, 
Bright  resting-places  greet  us  here  and  there, 

And  in  the  darkening  hours  of  doubt  and  fear 
We  find  relief  in  sacrifice  and  prayer. 

The  hot  sands  often  burn  our  tired  feet, 
The  way  is  steep  and  rugged  oftentimes, 

But  rest  at  length,  refreshing,  peaceful,  sweet, 
Comes  to  the  patient  traveller  who  climbs. 


Birthdays.  27 

Let  every  step  be  firm,  each  motive  high; 

That  we  may  upward  look,  be  still  our  prayer. 
The  journey  may  seem  long,  but  by  and  by 

A  crown  that  He  hath  promised  we  shall  wear. 


28  Neglected  Duty. 


NEGLECTED    DUTY. 

THE  bells  were  calling  to  evening  prayer, 
As  I  fell  asleep  in  my  easy-chair. 

I  dreamed  that  an  angel  bid  me  rise, 
And  I  stood  at  the  gate  of  Paradise. 

Ineffable  rapture  thrilled  my  soul; 
Impatient  to  reach  the  heavenly  goal, 

I  turned  to  the  angel  at  my  side, — 
"The  portal  open  at  once!"  I  cried. 

The  angel  answered,  "  It  is  for  thee 

To  unlock  the  gate.     Hast  thou  the  key, — 

"The  golden  key  that  is  forged  by  prayer, 
Then  welded  by  faith  and  works  with  care, 


Neglected  Duty.  29 

"Tempered  and  finished  by  sacrifice, 
That  opens  the  gate  to  Paradise?" 

The  angel  vanished.     I  woke  in  my  chair, 
The  bells  still  calling  to  evening  prayer. 


3O  Unf or  given. 


TTNFORGIVEN. 

I  SAID  an  unkind  word.    My  boy  looked  up 

Into  my  face,  half  angry,  half  afraid; 

His  hand  upon  my  arm  he  quickly  laid, 
But  did  not  speak :  it  was  a  bitter  cup. 

His  look,  so  strange  and  wild,  I'll  ne'er  forget. 
I  struggled  hard  to  say  a  kindly  word, 
But  my  proud  will  forbade ;  and  soon  I  heard 

His  hurried  footsteps  —  ah,  I  hear  them  yet ! 

It  cannot  be  my  boy  has  left  his  home ; 

'Tvvas  but  a  hasty  word,  I  meant  no  harm ; 

But  oh  the  bitter  grief  it  brought,  alarm  ! 
I  watched  and  watched  in  vain :  he  did  not  come. 

Too  soon  I  found  the  boy  I  loved  had  fled, — 
A  sea  between  me  and  my  darling  child. 
Oh,  how  my  poor  heart  ached  !  my  brain  grew  wild, 

And  every  thing  around  me  then  seemed  dead. 


Unf or  given.  31 

I've  borne  the  burden  of  that  word  for  years. 
I'd  give  a  world,  if  it  were  mine  to  give, 
If  my  dead  boy  could  hear  me  say,  "Forgive." 

Oh,  pity  me,  ye  mothers,  in  my  tears ! 


32  Morning  and  Evening. 


MORNING   AND    EVENING. 

FROM  Salem  town,  one  sabbath  morn, 

A  boat  sailed  out  to  sea : 
From  roof  and  rock,  and  bush  of  thorn, 

The  birds  sang  merrily; 
Bright  were  the  skies,  the  breezes  fair, — 
Praises  to  God  were  in  the  air. 

Church-bells  rang  out  a  happy  chime,  — 

Rang  as  they  had  before; 
You  could  have  heard  their  welcome  call 

A  league  at  sea,  or  more : 
The  boat  was  not  a  mile  away, 
When  church-bells  rang  that  sabbath  day. 

While  prayers  were  said,  and  praises  sung, 

Throughout  that  quiet  town, 
The  "Fairy,"  with  its  precious  souls, 

Into  the  deep  went  down, — 


Morning  and  Evening.  33 

Three  bodies  drifting  in  the  sea; 
Three  souls  out  in  eternity. 

When  twilight  came  that  sabbath  eve, 

Dark  waves  upon  the  shore 
Moaned  and  moaned  a  sadder  dirge 

Than  ever  heard  before, — 
Nor  song  of  birds,  nor  sound  of  bells, 
But  sobs  and  cries,  and  ocean  knells. 


Were  all  our  treasures  lost  at  sea, 
We'll  trust,  O  God,  we'll  trust  in  thee  ! 


34  Christmas. 


CHRISTMAS. 

FULL  at  the  inn !  The  birthplace  of  our  King 
More  lowly  yet  must  be,  than  that  rude  inn; 
More  humble  sacrifice  be  made  for  sin 

By  Him  who  doth  to  all  salvation  bring. 

Jehovah  spake;   and  from  the  heavens  a  star, 
Brighter  than  all  the  diadems  of  earth, 
While  angels  sang  the  praises  of  His  birth, 

Obeying,  led  the  Magi  from  afar. 

In  swaddling-clothes,  among  the  stalled  kine, 
His  regal  bed  a  manger,  but  his  crown 
Supernal  light  that  from  God's  throne  shone  down, 

They  found  the  King  of  kings,  the  Child  divine. 

His  grace  we  feel,  we  recognize  his  sway, 
And  hail  with  joy  the  Saviour's  natal  day ! 


Spring.  35 


SPRING. 

AWAY  she  flew  to  the  rivers  and  fountains, 
That  Winter  had  locked  with  his  icy  key; 

With  her  warm  breath  and  kisses  unlocked  them, 
Whispering  softly,  "I  come.     Ye  are  free." 

Flowers  that  were  sleeping  down  in  the  valleys 
Hear  her  soft  footsteps,  and  open  their  eyes; 

Grasses  and  mosses  awake  at  her  coming, 

And  birds  are  singing  new  songs  in  the  skies. 

Down  from  the  hillsides  waters  come  leaping, 
Waking  the  brooklets  in  meadow  and  dell; 

Voices  of  waters,  from  mountain  to  ocean, 
Are  chanting  to  Winter  a  gladsome  farewell. 


36  Spring. 

Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  sweet  smiling  maiden '. 

And  thanks  for  the  happy  voices  you  bring ; 
From  mountain  to  valley,  from  meadow  to  ocean, 

The  captives  of  Winter  thy  praises  now  sing. 


Gone.  37 


GONE. 

WE  had  a  darling  little  daughter, 

Sent  down  from  heaven  one  summer  morn ; 
Just  as  the  golden  sun  had  risen, 
Leading  darkness  out  of  prison, 
Our  little  girl  was  born. 

A  happy  robin  'mong  the  branches 

Of  an  olden  elm-tree,  near  our  door, 
Had  tuned  its  voice  to  sweetest  singing; 
For  in  her  nest  a  baby  birdling 
Was  born  an  hour  before. 


November's  chilling  winds  are  blowing, 

And  the  swinging  branches  sear  and  bare 
An  empty  cradle  now  are  rocking; 
For  birds  to  fairer  climes  are  flocking, 
And  birdling  is  not  there. 


38  Gone. 

An  angel  came  one  autumn  morning, 

When  the  winds  were  cold,  and  trees  were  bare. 
The  music  of  the  wind  is  mocking; 
For  baby's  cradle  is  not  rocking,— 
Our  darling  is  not  there. 


Wandering.  39 


"WANDERING. 

I  HAVE  wandered  to  the  mountain, 
And  the  night  is  dark  and  cold; 

I  am  lost !  O  heavenly  Shepherd, 
Where  is  the  fold? 


I  am  weary,  weak,  and  helpless, 
But  still  hoping  as  I  stand, 

Reaching  out  into  the  darkness, 
To  feel  thy  hand. 

I  am  waiting  for  thy  coming, 
For  the  fold,  and  safety  there; 

I  shall  perish,  loving  Shepherd, 
Without  thy  care. 


40  Wandering. 

Hark  !  I  hear  the  Shepherd  calling, 
And  the  morning  sky  of  gold 

Sends  a  light  across  the  mountain : 
I  see  the  fold! 


The  Red  Ear  of  Corn,  41 


THE    RED    EAR    OF    CORN. 

ONE  bright  October  morning, 
A  long,  long  time  ago, 

Beside  the  whispering  cornfield 
I  met  sweet  Jennie  Rowe. 

The  golden  ears  were  peeping 
Through  silvery  husks  to  see 

Two  little  lovers  wooing 

By  the  cornfield  on  the  lea. 

I  ran,  and  brought  to  Jennie 
A  bright  red  ear  of  corn  ; 

Quickly  the  crimson  blushes 
On  her  soft  cheeks  were  born. 

We  ran  across  the  meadow, 
Our  hearts  brimful  of  bliss : 

Jennie  kept  the  ear  of  corn, 
And  I  the  cornfield  kiss. 


42  The  Red  Ear  of  Corn. 

As  through  the  frosty  meadow, 
An  aged  man,  I  go, 

I  feel  that  kiss  upon  my  lips 
Of  fifty  years  ago. 


Questions  and  Answers.  43 


QUESTIONS   AND    ANSWERS. 

OUR  little  boy  Lorrimer,  four  years  old, 
With  inquisitive  eyes,  and  curls  of  gold, 
Was  told  at  the  breakfast-table  one  morn, 
That  a  dear  little  sister  to  him  was  born. 

"Where's  mother?"   he  said:   "I  guess  she'll  be  glad. 
Is  the  baby  good?    Perhaps  she  is  bad. 
I'm  bad  sometimes.     I  hope  she  is  good : 
I  guess  she's  one  of  the  'babes  in  the  wood.' 

"Now,  papa,  please  tell  me  who  brought  her  here." 
"  The  doctor,  my  child,  — •  the  doctor,  my  dear." 
"Why  don't  they  bring  the  baby  down  stairs, 
To  eat  her  breakfast,  and  then  say  her  prayers?" 

"The  baby  can't  eat,  for  teeth  she  has  none. 
Never  mind  now :    eat  your  breakfast,  my  son." 
The  boy  straightened  up,  well  filled  with  surprise, 
Opening  wide  his  inquisitive  eyes, — 


44  Questions  and  Answers. 

Said,  "Papa,  tell  doctor  to  take  her  away, 
And  finish  her,  so  she  can  eat  and  play. 
I  guess  I  don't  want  any  sister  dear, 
Without  any  teeth,  like  a  chicken,  here." 


Autumn  Memories.  45 


AUTUMN    MEMORIES. 

SHOWERS  of  autumn  leaves, 
Crimson,  russet,  and  gold, 

Falling  on  ripened  sheaves, 
Painting  wayside  and  wold; 

Music  of  little  feet 

Marching  under  the  trees; 
Shoutings  out  in  the  street; 

Children  catching  at  leaves. 

Memories  of  autumn  days 
Crowding  into  my  brain, 

Thinking  of  childish  ways, 
Giving  pleasure  and  pain. 

Under  a  leafless  tree, 

Weeping,  waiting,  I  stand, 

Childless :   these  sights  to  me 
Picture  a  little  hand 


46  Autumn  Memories. 

Playing  with  autumn  leaves. 

Looking  upward,  I  see 
Hanging  a  heavy  cloud 

Hiding  that  hand  from  me. 


January  i.  47 


JANUARY    1. 

ANOTHER  page  within  the  book  of  Time 

By  the  recording  angel  has  been  turned ; 

On  it  the  story  of  a  year  is  told, 

With  all  the  good  and  bad  deeds  of  a  world, 

Its  sins  and  its  repentings,  —  all  are  there : 

Many  a  life-ship  stranded  on  the  shore, 

Where  the  high  tides  of  Time  will  ebb  and  flow, 

Until  Eternity's  wild  wave  shall  lash 

The  shore,  and  carry  all  far  out  upon 

A  dark  and  unknown  sea. 

If  man  would  read 

The  future,  he  must  learn,  and  well,  from  out 
The  primer  of  each  swift  evolving  year, 
The  alphabet  of  Time. 


48  Life 's  Journey. 


LIFE'S    JOURNEY. 

"WE  have  taken  a  long  journey,  John, 

Happily  together, 
Up  and  down  life's  rugged  mountain, 

In  all  kinds  of  weather; 
We  have  seen  along  the  way 
Lights  and  shadows  day  by  day. 

"You  remember  one  May  morning,  John, 
When  the  birds  were  singing 

In  the  lindens  near  the  old  church, 
While  the  bells  were  ringing, — 

Wedding-bells  with  happy  chime,  — 

You  remember  well  the  time. 

"You  remember,  too,  the  dear  ones,  John, 

We  led  along  the  way; 
How  we  struggled  in  the  dark  hours 

When  they  inclined  to  stray: 


Life 's  Journey.  49 

Though  they  wandered  now  and  then, 
The  Saviour  brought  them  back  again. 

"An  angel  came  three  times,  you  know,  John, 
And  took  those  God  had  given ; 

Although  we  knew  it  was  his  will, 
It  brought  us  nearer  heaven. 

Trials  brought  us  near  to  God, 

Trusting  as  we  felt  the  rod. 

"We  are  out  upon  the  plain  now,  John, 

And  life's  sun  is  sinking; 
It  is  a  golden  sunset  ours, 

And  I  have  been  thinking, 
When  the  twilight  shall  grow  dim, 
We  shall  get  new  light  from  him. 

"When  we  step  into  the  river,  John, 

Our  Saviour's  cross  we'll  see ; 
And  clinging  to  it  we  shall  float 

Into  eternity, — 
Safe  upon  the  other  shore ; 
Struggle,  wait,  and  weep,  no  more." 


5o  Laborers  Wanted. 


LABORERS    "WANTED. 

HEAR  ye  the  call  that  comes  over  the  sea? 
Tis  the  Master  calling,  calling  for  thee. 
Go  forth,  go  forth,  at  the  voice  of  the  Word, 
Into  the  ripening  fields  of  the  Lord  ! 
Gather  the  grain. 

Hear  ye  the  voices  that  call  you  at  home? 
Why  stand  ye  here  idle?    Will  ye  not  come? 
Go  feeding  the  hungry,  and  clothing  the  poor : 
The  harvests  are  ripening  just  at  your  door. 
Gather  the  grain. 

Go  work  for  the  Master,  the  world  is  his  field; 
The  Spirit  is  calling,  will  ye  not  yield? 
A  crown  of  glory  to  you  will  be  given ; 
Doing  his  work,  ye  are  entering  heaven. 
Gather  the  grain. 


Mollie  and  Grandfather.  51 


MOLLIE    AND    GRANDFATHER, 

"I'M  sorry,  dear  grandpa,  you're  going  away, 
I  couldn't  help  crying  this  morning  at  play, 
When  I  thought  of  what  mother  and  aunt  Mary  said, 
As  Jennie  and  I  lay  awake  in  our  bed. 

"  Now,  grandpa,  please  take  me  once  more  on  your  knee  ; 
Put  your  glasses  on  straight,  and  then  you  can  see 
To  read  me  a  story;  then  kiss  me  good-night. 
I'm  so  sorry  you're  going !  I  don't  think  it's  right. 

"When  mother  was  your  little  darling  like  me, 
I  guess  she  used  to  climb  up  on  your  knee, 
And  you  told  her  stories,  then  rocked  her  to  sleep 
After  giving  a  kiss,  as  you  do  me,  to  keep. 

"  I'll  write  you,  dear  grandpa,  almost  every  day, 
Send  love  and  sweet  kisses,  while  you  are  away; 
I'll  pray  for  you,  too,  just  as  well  as  I  can, 
I  wish  I  could  pray  like  a  woman  or  man." 


52  Mollie  and  Grandfather. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  child  ?  What  did  aunt  Mary  say  ? 
Did  your  mother  ask  her  to  take  me  away? 
I  cannot  believe  they  would  treat  me  thus  ill, 
My  heart  is  fast  throbbing,  it  will  not  keep  still." 

"Why,  mother  told  auntie  that  you  had  been  here 
With  us  in  the  city  for  many  a  year; 
That  you'd  better  go  home  with  her  for  a  while, 
Away  from  the  city,  away  from  the  style ; 

"That  she  had  so  much  company,  rich  and  gay, 
And  sometimes  you  really  were  quite  in  the  way ; 
That  now  you  were  getting  quite  deaf,  and  quite  lame, 
And  making  more  trouble  than  when  you  first  came. 

"Then  aunt  Mary  said,  'I'll  take  father  home, 
But  what  shall  I  do  when  my  visitors  come? 
I  have  no  spare  room  for  him,  Jennie,  you  know : 
I  cannot  see  why  we  are  both  troubled  so  ' "  — 

"  Stop,   my   child  !    stop,  my  child  !     Pray  say  nothing 

more, 

My  poor  heart  is  breaking ;  "  then  closing  his  door, 
He  took  from  the  table  his  dear  Bible  worn, 
And  from  a  stained  page,  on  a  leaf  that  was  torn, 


Mottle  and  Grandfather.  53 

These  words  of  the  Saviour  in  sorrow  he  read : 
"Forgive  them/'  "forgive  them;"  a  prayer  he  then  said, 
And  in  sweet  submission  to  his  Father's  will, 
Awaited  —  and  trusting,  with  no  fear  of  ill  — 

The  unwelcome  morning  when  he  should  depart 
From    the   home   of  his   childhood,   the   home    of  his 

heart. 

That  night  crept  in  Mollie,  and  prayed  by  his  bed. 
The  morning  dawned  not  upon  him  :  he  was  dead. 

And,  when  they  told  Mollie  her  grandpa  was  dead, 
With  eyes  filled  with  tears,  to  her  mother  she  said, 
"Mamma,  do  you  think  that  the  angels  will  say 
To  grandpa  in  heaven,  that  he's  in  the  way?" 


54  Three  instead  of  Four. 


THREE    INSTEAD    OF    FOUR. 

I  LAY  the  table  as  I  did  last  year, 

And  place  the  chairs  around  it  as  before  : 

Oh  !  if  I  only  could  hold  back  the  tear, 

And  they  not  see  it,  —  three  instead  of  four  ! 

They  now  are  coming,  in  their  youthful  glee  : 
I'll  hide  my  face  a  little  by  the  door; 

They  may  not  notice  any  change  in  me 

When  they  are  passing,  —  three  instead  of  four. 

I  looked  around,  but  did  not  see  them  all, 
As  on  Thanksgiving  Day  a  year  ago  : 

One  loving,  struggling  tear,  I  let  it  fall, 

When  a  sweet  spirit-voice  came  whispering  low. 

I  listened,  heedless  of  the  others  near, 
Thanking  my  Father  for  all  mercies  given. 

I  wonder  if  my  darling  saw  that  tear : 
It  is  not  very  far  from  earth  to  heaven. 


Three  instead  of  Four.  55 

I  would  not  call  him  from  the  other  shore 
To  sit  beside  me  at  the  feast  to-night; 

It  only  seemed  but  three  instead  of  four, 
When,  for  a  moment,  God  had  hid  the  light. 


5  6  Tbe  Other  Life. 


THE    OTHER    LIFE. 

I  KNOW  not  what  the  other  life  will  be : 
I  deem  it  will  be  one  of  peace  and  bliss  j 
If  I  have  served  my  Master  well  in  this, 

I'm  sure  that  only  good  can  come  to  me. 

My  teachers,  in  their  wisdom,  cannot  tell : 
They  do  not  seem  to  understand  my  needs. 
In  confidence  they  point  me  to  their  creeds ; 

If  I  accept,  they  say  it  will  be  well. 

I  have  not  seen  the  pearly  gates  above, 

The  golden  streets,  the  throne,  nor  crystal  sea 
My  duty  done,  it  is  enough  for  me 

To  know  that  all  is  sanctified  by  love. 

I  will  not  be  impatient  to  know  all, 
But  do  my  duty,  and  await  His  call. 


G.  S.  T.  57 


G.  S.  T. 

DEATH  cannot  be  a  messenger  of  ill 
To  him  who  faithfully  his  Master  serves; 
Who  cheerfully  accepts  the  work  assigned, 
Serving  unto  the  end  with  all  his  heart; 
Who,  in  the  dreary  deserts  of  this  life, 
Opens  the  cooling  spring,  or  plants  the  shade, 
Where  weary  travellers  may  drink  and  rest; 
Who  holds  the  ladder  for  some  timid  soul 
To  climb  above  its  conflicts  and  its  fears, 
And,  through  the  telescope  of  Faith,  behold 
That  which  the  doubting  soul  had  longed  to  see. 
Not  unto  him  who  served  so  valiantly, 
Obeying  heavenly  orders  without  fear, 
Was  Death  commissioned  to  display  his  power; 
But  to  declare  a  message  had  been  sent, 
Announcing  that  the  King  of  kings  desired 
His  heavenly  mansion  should  be  occupied. 


58  Delayed. 


DELAYED. 

SHALL  we  listlessly  stand  with  folded  hands, 
For  the  Angel  of  Peace  to  come  and  bless,  — 

To  quiet  the  strife,  and  sever  the  bands 
That  so  closely  bind  us  to  selfishness? 

In  vain  our  awaiting  her  advent  here,        f 
While  the  robe  of  Charity  is  not  worn, 

While  Passion  knows  not  the  price  of  a  tear, 
While  pearls  from  the  neck  of  Virtue  are  torn; 

While  Poverty  weeps  at  the  gate  of  Wealth, 
While  Faith  and  Honor  are  murdered  by  gold, 

While  Trust  and  Hope  are  made  captives  by  stealth, 
While  Truth  for  the  price  of  a  lie  is  sold. 


Delayed.  59 

O'er  the  deluge  of  sin,  Peace  will  not  fly 
With  a  signal  of  hope,  like  Noah's  dove : 

We  shall  wait  in  vain  for  her  hov'ring  nigh, 

While  the  world  is  dead  to  the  claims  of  Love. 


60  Lines. 


LINES 

Read  at  the  dedication  of  the  Masonic  monument,    Waterbury,   Conn., 
erected  over  the  graues  of  poor  Masons, 

THE  mighty  monuments  of  Egypt,  reared 

By  tyrant  kings  long  centuries  ago, 
Who  loved  not  man,  nor  their  Creator  feared, 

Tell  of  past  ages  with  their  war  and  woe. 

Among  the  wonders  of  a  world  they  stand, 
Displaying  ever  matchless  power  and  skill; 

Mountains  of  stone  they  rise,  colossal,  grand, 
Enduring  trophies  of  the  human  will. 

Rome's  frescoed  catacombs,  time-worn  and  gray, 
Where  Christian  martyrs  have  for  centuries  lain, 

Speaking  to  us  beside  the  Appian  Way, 

Reveal  the  tyrant's  loss,  the  Christian's  gain. 


Lines.  61 

What  are  the  mighty  sepulchres  of  earth, 
Or  towering  monuments  to  honor  man, 

To  mark  their  resting-place,  their  death  or  birth, 
In  any  land  or  age  since  time  began,  — 

Compared  in  glory  to  that  rock-hewn  grave 
Where  the  great  Conqueror  of  death  was  laid? 

The  King  of  kings,  who  came  a  world  to  save, 
And  for  the  bound  of  earth  the  ransom  paid. 

Infinite  love,  his  crown ;  his  sceptre,  peace ; 

Angels  announced  his  mission  to  a  world  • 
The  heavenly  host  sang  songs  of  glad  release, 

And  hailed  the  flag  of  brotherhood  unfurled. 

Faith  at  his  coming  sang  a  joyous  song; 

Hope  from  her  bondage  by  his  word  was  free ; 
And  patient  Charity,  who  waited  long, 

Saw  love  unlocked  with  his  fraternal  key. 

Into  a  city  where  the  sleeping  dead 

Hear  not  our  songs,  nor  listen  to  our  prayers, 

Our  willing  feet  fraternity  has  led, 

Again  to  prove  what  Masonry  declares. 


62  Lines. 

A  century  hence,  some  pilgrim  on  his  way 
Perchance  may  pass  this  consecrated  spot, 

And,  as  he  looks  upon  this  stone,  will  say, — 
"The  humbler  ones  of  earth  were  not  forgot." 

Hail,  ancient  Order,  with  thy  deeds  of  love  ! 

Thy  kindly  charities  have  blessed  the  poor, 
Turned  many  a  pilgrim's  eye  to  look  above, 

And  through  the  darkness  see  an  open  door. 

Each  age  and  nation  has  its  history  told ; 

The  noble  charities  that  each  has  given 
Within  the  "  Book  of  Ages  "  are  enrolled, 

And  have  their  place  in  the  archives  of  heaven. 

Our  loving  deed,  O  Architect  Divine  ! 

Wilt  thou,  we  humbly  pray  thee,  now  approve : 
Then  this  fraternal  act  will  ever  shine, 

A  star  of  beauty  in  the  sky  of  love. 


Waiting.  63 


"WAITING. 

ON  the  shore  of  time  I  linger, 

Looking  out  upon  a  sea 
Where  the  ships  are  sailing  outward 

From  this  nether  land  and  me. 

These  mysterious  ships  are  bearing 
Treasures  out  upon  the  main, 

That  the  heart  has  loved  and  cherished; 
But  they  come  not  back  again. 

Faith  and  Hope  speak  words  of  comfort, 

As  the  ships  sail  out  to  sea. 
Were  it  not  for  these  good  angels 

That  are  cheering  you  and  me, — 

Life  would  be  a  heavy  burden; 

And  the  shadows  on  the  shore 
Would  forever  keep  the  sunlight 

From  the  soul's  half-open  door. 


64  Waiting. 

I  will  wait  with  resignation : 
My  ship  is  coming  by  and  by; 

Through  the  darkness  outward  sailing, 
Underneath  a  heavenly  sky, — 

I  shall  find  within  the  harbor, 
Safe  upon  the  other  shore, 

All  my  treasures  that  were  taken, 
And  heaven  forevermore. 


Disappointment.  65 


DISAPPOINTMENT. 

MY  tree  of  life  in  springtime  promised  well : 
The  buds  of  faith  and  hope  were  full  and  fair ; 
Then  blossoms  with  rich  fragrance  filled  the  air, 

Making  my  pathway  sweeter  where  they  fell. 

The  fruit  appeared :   I  watched  its  growth  with  care ; 

Dark  clouds  of  doubt  and  fear  hung  o'er  my  tree; 

"Your  fruit's  in  danger,"  oft  was  said  to  me. 
That  it  might  live  to  ripen,  was  my  prayer. 

In  autumn  time,  my  fruitage  gathered  in, 
Perfect  it  seemed;  and  to  myself  I  said, 
"  How  poor  the  fruit  when  faith  and  hope  are  dead  ! 

Mine  has  escaped  the  withering  blight  of  sin." 


66  Disappointment. 

At  length  the  fruit  I  tasted;  and  I  found, 

Forgetting  works,  I  now  must  bear  the  pain,  — 
That  I  had  watched  and  waited  long  in  vain. 

What  looked  so  fair  was  bitter  and  unsound. 


Faith.  67 


FAITH. 

MY  lamp  of  hope  hath  grown  so  feebly  dim, 
I  grope  and  feel  my  way  like  one  that's  blind; 
I  seek  in  vain,  with  trembling  heart,  to  find 

A  better  way  that  leadeth  unto  Him. 

I  said,  "My  lamp  is  filled  with  heavenly  oil," 
So  bright  it  burned;   for  then  the  narrow  way 
Seemed  broad  enough,  and  easy;   but  to-day 

I  find  what  then  was  pleasure  now  is  toil. 

I'll  rise,  and  take  my  feeble  light  again, 
Although  I  know  that  pilgrims  on  the  way, 
In  passing  me,  triumphantly  will  say, 

"An  untrimmed  lamp  hath  caused  him  all  his  pain," 
Assured  at  length,  if  I  sincerely  pray, 
That  when  my  lamp  goes  out  it  will  be  day. 


Extracts. 


EXTRACTS    FROM    AN    ESSAY    ON    DOUGLAS 
JERROLD. 

EIGHTEEN  hundred  and  three, 

January  third, 
At  London,  o'er  the  sea, 

Jerrold's  voice  was  heard. 

Nor  roar  of  cannon,  or  loud  ringing  bells, 

Proclaimed  his  humble  birth : 
These  are  a  nation's  heralds,  and  announce 

The  regal  ones  of  earth. 

Both  wise  and  foolish  ones  of  earth  have  been 
Treated  alike  in  this  old  world  of  sin,  — 
Have  been  compelled,  the  same  as  he, 
In  babyhood  to  drink  herb-tea; 


Extracts.  69 

Then  kick  and  cry,  be  pricked  with  pins, 
And  suffer  from  primeval  sins. 


Of  a  slender  form,  and  mien 

Like  a  girl; 
Hair  as  white  as  tow  or  flax, 

Not  a  curl; 

With  a  will  as  strong  and  wild 

As  a  man ; 
Forehead  high,  and  rosy  cheeks 

Without  tan ; 

With  a  round  and  roguish  face; 

Speaking  eyes, 
Mischief  in  them,  which  he  tried 

To  disguise; 

With  his  toes  exposed  to  view; 

Hat-brim  bent; 
Trousers  not  quite  whole  behind, 

A  little  rent, — 


70  Extracts. 

Thus  he  looked,  this  English  lad, 

As  he  went 
Knocking  round  among  the  boys 

Out  in  Kent 


England's  wits  are  loud  proclaimed 

Throughout  the  world; 
But  keener,  dryer,  wiser  wit 

Was  never  hurled 
With  greater  power  than  by  this  man 

Both  high  and  low, 
In  vain  attempt  to  dodge  his  shaft, 

Received  the  blow. 
However  sharp  the  weapon's  edge, 

However  deep  the  wound, 
All  who  suffered  from  his  wit 

This  consolation  found : 
That  wit  which  silenced  noble  lords, 

And  vanquished  Robert  Peel, 
Was  better  than  a  common  wound, 

Though  it  should  never  heal. 


Extracts.  71 


He  had  a  garden  laid, 
Well  filled  with  flowers; 

Happy  the  hours  he  spent 
Within  its  bowers. 


There  you  might  see  him  lifting  up 

A  drooping  flower, 
That  it  might  gain  new  strength  to  bloom 

Another  hour. 


Singing  bird  upon  the  tree ; 
Ugly  worm,  and  humming-bee ; 
Tiny  insect  at  his  feet; 
Children  shouting  in  the  street; 
Sunlight  dancing  on  the  stream, 
Brighter  than  a  silver  dream ; 
Music  in  the  linden-trees ; 
Ever-nervous  aspen-leaves ; 
Shadows  as  they  rise  and  fall 
From  and  on  his  garden-wall, — 
Jerrold  heard  and  saw  them  all. 


72  Extracts. 

He  breakfasted  at  eight; 

Then  among  the  trees, 
A-whistling  as  he  went, 

Sniffing  in  the  breeze ; 

Followed  by  a  black-tan 

Close  upon  his  heels; 
Talking  with  the  gypsies 

Camping  in  the  fields ; 

Pulling  pinks  and  roses, 

As  he  passed  along; 
Through  the  garden  homeward, 

Singing  some  loved  song. 

He  was  intimate  with  Dickens  : 

Walked  together, 

Talked  together; 
Praised  each  other's  hens  and  chickens. 

(When  upon  a  raid, 
Jerrold  beat  the  very  Dickens 
If  a  joke  was  played.) 


Extracts.  73 

Though  unlike  in  form  and  feature, 

And  in  style, 
From  each  you  felt  the  force  of  genius 

All  the  while. 

Wherever  either  went, — 
To  London  or  to  Kent, — 
Their  power  the  people  felt, 
And  to  their  genius  knelt. 

A  strange  and  wondrous  gift 

On  each  had  been  bestowed; 
Common  minds  that  met  them 

Gave  more  than  half  the  road. 
And  so  you'll  find  it  any  day : 

Mind  always  has  the  right  of  way. 


His  morn  and  silver  noon  of  life  is  past ; 

Now  only  shadows  where  his  sun  has  shone ; 
His  once  bright  sky  is  early  overcast : 

The  work  of  Douglas  Jerrold  soon  is  done. 


74  Extracts. 

Soon  to  feel  the  dart  from  death's  dark  quiver; 
Soon  upon  the  unseen  narrow  river, 
Between  two  worlds,  but  for  a  moment's  stay : 
Then  lifts  the  curtain  to  eternal  day. 


Extracts.  75 


EXTRACTS     FROM     AN     ESSAY     ON     THE 
CHARACTER    OF    RICHARD    THIRD. 

WE  study  well,  and  with  the  best  intent, 

The  character  of  this  base  son  of  York, 

By  his  Satanic  Majesty  let  loose, 

To  play  his  wicked  pranks  on  friends  and  foes, 

To  purify  their  royal  blood  with  steel, — 

The  letting-out  of  which  ran  far  too  free 

For  their  continuance,  —  by  him  required, 

To  give  his  mad  ambition  more  content. 

The  "War  of  Roses"  should  have  left  perfume 

Sweeter  than  drying  blood  upon  a  block ; 

And  purer  air  for  princes  innocent, 

Than  that  inhaled  beneath  a  pillow  pressed. 

An  autopsy  of  this  strange  son  of  York 

Would  show  a  large  and  much-diseased  brain, 

Hardness  of  heart,  innumerable  scars ; 

And,  on  the  retina  of  his  wicked  eye, 

Pictures  painted  by  his  murderous  hand, 

Enough  to  fill  a  gallery  of  crime,  — 


76  Extracts. 

Of  relatives  enough,  most  foully  slain, 
To  fill  a  country  churchyard  of  fair  size, 
Leaving  himself  almost  relationless, 
By  his  inventions  queer  to  take  them  off. 


With  piety  he  should  have  been  well  filled: 

His  mother  said  good  prayers,  attended  mass, 

Taught  him  the  royal  catechism  well, 

Administered  maternal  law  to  suit 

Her  own  caprice,  anticipating  good. 

Whate'er  her  prayers,  whate'er  the  lessons  given, 

He  learned  deceit,  and  trifled  much  with  heaven. 

Shakspeare,  in  his  vocabulary,  found 

Expressive  names  enough  for  this  young  duke, — 

"Hell's  black  intelligencer,"  "spider,"  "toad," 

"Hedgehog,"  "devil,"  and  "base  son  of  hell." 

Christened  with  names  so  diabolical, 

The  world  has  looked  on  him  as  badly  soiled. 

If  merited,  Shakspeare  should  rest  in  peace; 

If  not,  he  should  awakened  be,  and  give, 

At  once,  account  for  using  such  bad  names. 

Poetic  license  is  a  useful  gate 


Extracts.  77 

For  poets  to  slip  through,  when  closely  pressed. 

Though  history  be  close  upon  their  heels, 

They  have  no  fear.     Imagination  stands, 

A  ready  sentinel,  to  give  alarm, 

And  dazzle  with  her  brilliancy  the  foe. 


High-colored  pictures,  if  not  natural, 

Offend  the  taste  of  an  artistic  school, 

As  novels  written  for  a  vulgar  crowd, 

Filled  with  unnatural  imaginings, 

Provoke,  the  sensible  to  cry,  "For  shame!" 

We  do  not  say  that  Shakspeare  painted  ill ; 

But  the  short  space  of  time  we  much  deplore, 

Between  the  taking-off  of  Henry  Sixth 

And  Anne's  love-making  with  this  son  of  York. 

We  trust  a  month,  at  least,  did  intervene, 

To  save  propriety  from  a  lament. 


No  pious  youth  of  family  renowned, 
Though  his  proportions  fail  of  being  fair 


78  Extracts. 

As  an  Apollo,  or  King  Henry  Fifth, 
Would  care  to  make  a  contract  with  Hades 
To  sever  ties  fraternal,  and  permit 
Ambition  for  a  crown  to  wreck  his  soul. 
But  Richard  Third  was  impious  enough 
To  save  the  noble  family  of  York 
From  an  old  age  and  its  attending  ills. 
Unwilling  that  his  brother  should  endure 
The  many  ills  he  did  anticipate, 
Thus  lovingly  unburdened  he  his  heart :  — 
"I  do  love  thee  so  that  I  will  shortly 
Send  thy  soul  to  heaven,  if  heaven 
Will  take  the  present  at  our  hands." 
He  made  the  winter,  once  called  glorious, 
Frigid  enough  to  freeze  the  royal  blood 
Within  the  veins  of  Clarence  and  the  king. 
Encouraged  much  by  such  a  setting  out, 
He  prayed  for  wintry  weather  most  intense, 
Declaring  that  he  longed  for  summer  days, 
And  from  fraternal  gardens  sweet  perfume. 


His  love  for  funerals  was  quite  unique. 
The  murderer  to-day  is  not  inclined 


Extracts.  79 

To  stay  the  hearse  that  bears  his  victim  on, 
Engage  in  dialogues  exceptional, 
Delay  with  angry  words  the  obsequies, 
And,  with  commands  peremptory,  affright 
Those  who  would  decently  inter  their  dead. 
But  he  would  stay  the  funeral  of  a  king 
Whose  death  he  had  most  anxiously  desired, 
And  striven  well  for  the  accomplishment, 
That  with  deceit  supreme,  and  blandishments, 
He  might  have  chance  to  try  his  wooing  on 
With  the  chief  mourner  of  the  funeral  train, 
Who  had  been  lately  widowed  by  his  hand. 
With  flattery  well  poised,  persuasively, 
He  tells  his  love,  and  with  such  sweet  accent, 
That  Anne  is  won,  whose  mouth,  with  curses  filled 
But  yesterday,  has  kisses  sweet  for  him. 
The  funeral  cortege  starts.     The  royal  corse 
Goes  now  unhindered  to  its  burial-place. 


It  cannot  be  that  Shakspeare,  in  the  play, 

Desires  our  weak  credulity  to  strain 

Until  the  strings  of  common-sense  shall  snap 


Extracts. 

With  the  peculiar  tension  he  applies ; 

But,  rather,  that  we  exercise  our  wits 

Until  most  healthy  action  is  attained, 

That  we  may  judge  if  poetry  and  fact 

Are  well  united  in  the  story  told. 

We  turn  to  history,  and  search  with  care ; 

Then  carefully  compare  it  with  the  play, 

Hoping  to  find  the  duke  has  been  traduced, 

That  his  morality  was  better  far 

Than  Shakspeare  on  the  page  would  represent. 

Unsatisfied  with  the  embellishments 

That  poetry  has  furnished  lavishly, 

We  look  into  the  camera  of  fact, 

And  find  correct  impressions  upside  down. 

If  Shakspeare  painted  Richard  for  a  prize, 

Or  an  advertisement  to  sell  his  verse, 

He  should  have  hung  his  ugly  portrait  up 

Within  a  gilded  frame  to  set  it  off. 


If  history  has  not  been  reticent, 

But  faithfully  portrays  his  character, 

We  should  with  its  plain  statements  be  content, 


Extracts.  81 

And  save  ourselves  from  further  stress  of  mind. 

What  doth  it  matter  if  Shakspeare  has  dreamed 

That  Richard's  teeth  were  grown  before  their  time? 

Or  that  a  score  of  tailors  he  engaged? 

Or  spent  his  money  for  a  looking-glass? 

We  study  Richard's  character  to  find, 

If,  in  the  weighing  of  his  qualities, 

There  may  not  be  a  scruple  more  of  good 

Than  Shakspeare  in  his  estimation  found. 

Many  to-day  as  then,  in  reckoning, 

For  every  one  bad  deed  will  carry  nine, 

Instead  of  one  for  ten,  which  is  enough ; 

Thus  into  the  arithmetic  of  life 

They  introduce  a  most  pernicious  rule, 

And  find  at  length  the  bad  deeds  multiplied 

More  than  a  computation  just  would  show. 

Bad  men  are  often  weighed  with  rusty  scales, 

Together  with  their  wrappings ;  and  the  world, 

Guessing  only  at  their  actual  weight, 

Makes  a  false  charge,  and  bids  them  not  complain. 

Mankind  must  suffer,  and  are  oft  condemned, 

For  their  inherited  deformities 

Of  mind  and  body,  helpless  to  elect 

That  which  would  give  best  color  to  their  lives. 


82  Extracts. 

Richard  Plantagenet,  his  lying  sire, 

With  Henry  Sixth  made  solemn  covenant, 

But  broke  his  vow  as  easily  as  men 

Deceive  and  lie  to-day  to  win  a  prize 

Of  far  less  value  than  a  British  crown. 

A  dangerous  scion,  from  a  poisoned  tree, 

Whose  roots  for  centuries  had  taken  life 

From  that  which  genders  sap  detestable, 

Shedding  an  upas-perfume  o'er  an  age, 

Entailed  the  duke  with  such  inheritance. 

Let  those  who  would  invectively  assail 

The  character  of  such  unfortunates, 

Forget  not  that  inheritance  has  claim 

To  fair  considerations  ere  they  judge. 

We  find  some  thrifty  trees  with  ugly  trunks, 

Deprived  of  beauty  by  a  natural  cause, 

Revealing  scars  and  bold  excrescences, 

Disfiguring  the  orchards  where  they  grow ; 

Inviting  us  by  their  deformities 

To  occupy  their  places  of  much  worth, 

With  those  of  better  growth  and  beautiful. 

We  raise  the  axe  to  cut  reluctantly, 

For  here  and  there  we  find  some  hidden  fruit, 

Sweeter  than  that  upon  the  graceful  tree 


Extracts.  83 

That  promised  us  so  much,  but  failed  to  yield 
What  we  required  for  our  best  nourishment. 


The  age  was  murderous,  and  called  for  blood. 
Men  cared  as  little  for  their  brothers'  heads 
As  farmers  do  for  antiquated  fowls, 
Which  they  decapitate  for  useful  ends, 
Anear  Thanksgiving  time,  with  easy  grace. 
Richard,  for  exercise  unnatural, 
Tossed  the  warm  head  of  Somerset  about, 
Which  he  had  severed  in  his  wantonness, 
As  boys  would  toss  a  football  on  the  field; 
Declaring  that  he  should  be  ill  at  ease 
Until  King  Henry's  was  alike  disgraced. 


Literary  athletes  often  air  their  strength, 
Attempting  criticism  to  their  harm. 
They  even  enter  the  poetic  ring 
To  spar  with  Shakspeare ;  only  to  receive 
An  unexpected  blow,  so  damaging, 


84  Extracts. 

The  sponge  goes  up,  and  they  are  taken  off. 

Some  quite  dislike  the  cut  of  Shakspeare's  clothe 

Accuse  his  tailor  of  an  ugly  fit, 

When  thus  apparelled  say  that  Shakspeare  looks 

Like  other  poets  when  they're  badly  dressed. 

But  there  are  those  of  literary  strength 

Who  criticise  with  a  desire  to  give 

Unto  the  world  an  estimate  most  fair; 

But  should  they  dare  to  say,  though  honestly, 

His  inspiration  lacks  the  quality 

To  touch  the  finer  sensibilities 

In  this  murderous  play  of  Richard  Third, 

Although  acknowledging  his  wondrous  power, 

According  him  supreme  poetic  strength,  — 

They  would  be  called  upon  to  answer  why 

That  with  perfection  they  took  liberties. 


The  harp  of  Poesy  has  many  strings. 
While  one  will  roughly  play  and  carelessly, 
Another,  with  a  touch  most  delicate, 
Produces  harmony  that  lifts  the  soul 
Into  a  sweeter  atmosphere  of  life. 


Extracts.  85 

But  Shakspeare,  like  no  other,  sweeps  the  strings 

With  a  bold  hand,  until  he  fills  a  world 

With  music  wonderful,  melodious, 

Enchanting  all  who  listen  to  the  sounds. 

Magnetic  power,  and  skill  to  fascinate, 

He  well  displays,  then  leaves  a  world  to  dream 

Of  his  astounding  feats  unparalleled. 

He  failed  to  write  a  love-song  for  the  king 

Who  said  such  loving,  honeyed  words  to  Anne. 

A  proper  epitaph  he  failed  to  write 

For  him  who  sought  in  vain  for  a  fast  horse 

To  make  quick  time  away  from  Bosworth  Field. 

But  he  declares  the  king  had  intellect 

Sufficient  to  have  made  a  better  man; 

Bespeaks  his  valor,  with  some  earnestness, 

Displayed  in  mad  encounters  with  his  foes. 

But  we  lament  that  Shakspeare  did  not  find 

More  traits  of  character  desirable 

In  this  declared  ungrateful  son  of  York. 

Perhaps  he  knew  not  that  King  Richard  wished 

To  be  a  missionary  to  his  friends, 

Like  pious  Puritans  in  later  times, 

Who  hung  the  Quakers  just  to  do  them  good. 


86  Extracts. 

Richard's  defeat  at  length,  on  Bosworth  Field, 

Placed  England's  crown  upon  King  Henry's  head. 

The  king  and  court  said  nothing  good  of  him 

Who  had  so  lately  worn  the  British  crown, 

But  branded  him  a  villain  the  most  foul; 

And  from  that  time  historians  have  been 

Painting  King  Richard's  character,  until 

It  has  grown  blacker  than  the  blackest  imp 

In  the  Inferno  of  which  Dante  sings. 

Bad  things  grow  faster  travelling  than  good. 

Four  centuries  quite  naturally  give 

A  sable  look  to  this  poor  king's  misdeeds. 

The  world  is  tardy  in  the  polishing 

Of  better  qualities  and  deeds  of  men, 

While  every  fault  finds  ready  burnishers. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 


UC SOUTHERN  REG  ONALL    RARY   AC  LTV 


A  A      000023869   1 


PS 

190U 
H32A17 


